


‘Then we’ll just have to consider the other kind.’

by Crowgirl



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), M/M, New Relationship, Not Beta Read
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-10
Updated: 2019-11-10
Packaged: 2021-01-27 05:48:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21387109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crowgirl/pseuds/Crowgirl
Summary: The thing is, Crowley thinks, this is not his fault.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 116
Collections: Chaste Omens





	‘Then we’ll just have to consider the other kind.’

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jaydeun](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jaydeun/gifts), [Kivrin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kivrin/gifts), [breadandroses](https://archiveofourown.org/users/breadandroses/gifts), [elizajane](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elizajane/gifts).

The thing is, Crowley thinks, this is not his fault. And it’s not the kind of _not his fault_ he has often appealed to in the past, the sort where he just _happened_ to be standing on the same street as the collapsed building or in the same city as the invading army or, once and notably, in the same country as the destroyed library. Aziraphale had taken years to forgive him for that.

This time it really _honestly_ is not his fault. All he had wanted was a nap and there was Aziraphale’s pea coat, cozy and woolly and warm, hanging on the back of his desk chair in the sunshine, and, well--- 

Crowley has never _claimed_ to have any self-restraint.

It had been a long bloody two months since the Armagedon’t and because of Aziraphale for reasons which Crowley doesn’t want to examine too closely because if he does, he fears the end of the world will just come roaring back and consume them both. 

As much as Aziraphale might go on about how they won because of the wonderfulness of love and humanity and the general ineffableness of things, Crowley knows better: they won because they were _lucky_ and that’s not a real win, not the kind you can depend on. That’s a fragile house of cards where he doesn’t dare breathe too hard near it for fear it will go down.

So he doesn’t breathe on it and he doesn’t think about it and if he spends all the time he can near Aziraphale just to keep an eye on the angel, make sure he doesn’t disappear _again,_ make sure the center of his own personal world doesn’t simply vanish under his nose _again--_ Well, Aziraphale doesn’t seem to mind.

Leaving his coat on a chair in the sunshine is just -- well, it’s temptation, is what it is.

Crowley slips himself into one of the big front pockets, a small snake, small enough to be nearly weightless in the heavy wool. Here, everything smells of Aziraphale: a crumpled linen handkerchief that had been used to mop up a tea spill, a forgotten fragment of chocolate, and some softly limp petals from a geranium Crowley had brought to brighten up the front window. 

* * *

It says a lot, Crowley thinks as he jounces gently against the chocolate, that he had fallen asleep so soundly, Aziraphale not only putting his coat on but leaving the shop and taking some form of transportation hadn’t woken him; it had been the clamor of unfamiliar voices in the hotel that had finally done the trick. 

‘--yes, a pleasure to see you again, too.’ It’s Aziraphale’s public voice, the one he uses for customers he actually intends to allow to _buy_ a book.

Crowley lifts his head cautiously and scents the air. Cleaning supplies, food, humans, oh, and books -- a nearly overwhelming flood of paper and ink and leather and _old._ Ah, yes, of course: Aziraphale had said something about a sale or a fair or something. This must be it. 

Crowley recurls himself more tightly and sighs silently. At least it probably won’t take too long? 

* * *

It isn’t like he has a watch but _surely_ buying and selling a few books can’t take _this_ long! It seems to have been hours and Crowley has come to a definite decision that chocolate does not taste good to a snake tongue.

‘Ah, Mr Fell!’ Another voice that wants to sell Aziraphale something.

‘Oh, hello, Mr Warner.’ The slight sway of movement stops. ‘How have you been keeping? No assistant with you today?’

Crowley lifts his head, pressing it against the inner seam of the pocket. There’s something different about Aziraphale’s voice this time; it’s less public, more genuinely friendly. 

‘Always a pleasure to see you. Young Davie’s keeping the shop today -- left me all on my lonesome.’ There’s a companionable shared chuckle and the other voice goes on, ‘You weren’t at our last little meeting, were you? You missed out on a lovely little Plantin missal.’

‘Yes, it’s a shame but I had -- er -- personal business to attend to.’

‘Ah,’ the voice takes on a knowing tone, ‘something to do with that lad of yours, no doubt. He’s not with you today?’ 

Aziraphale laughs. ‘Not really his type of thing.’ 

‘Pity, we could do with something to brighten up the scene. Be sure to bring him along next time: we can always use a lovely young devil like him. Now--’

Crowley can barely resist the urge to throw himself out of Aziraphale’s pocket and re-form right on the hotel floor. Lovely _devil?_ Of _Aziraphale’s?_ Who has he been spending time with who _isn’t_ Crowley! And enough time that some _stranger_ feels justified in _teasing_ him about it! 

When Aziraphale’s hand fumbles into his pocket, fingers feeling for the handkerchief, Crowley feels entirely justified in biting the fingertip that comes closest to him. 

Aziraphale freezes.

‘Everything all right, Mr Fell?’

‘Ah -- oh -- yes, yes, perfectly, yes, I just -- have to take a call, I’m so sorry, I’ll be back in a moment--’

* * *

‘Get out here right this minute,’ Aziraphale says sternly and Crowley heard the door lock so he really has no excuse at this point.

So he takes a deep breath and slithers forth, managing to time it so that he lands feet-first in roughly human shape. He gives himself a shake, cracks his jaw, rolls his shoulders, getting rid of the last too-snakey elements, and grins at Aziraphale. ‘Hi, angel.’

Aziraphale looks like he can’t decide whether to start laughing or shouting. ‘What on _earth_ are you _doing!_ Are -- are you _spying_ on me now!’

‘What? No! I just fell asleep!’

‘In my _pocket?’_

Crowley shrugs uncomfortably, jamming his hands in his jeans pockets. ‘It was warm.’

Aziraphale’s lips move soundlessly for a minute, then he holds his hand up between them. ‘And _why_ exactly did you see fit to bite me?’

Crowley frowned. ‘Hardly a bite. More of a nip.’ It wasn’t as if he could open his jaws wide enough to do any damage at that size. Still, there’s a tiny red spot on the tip of Aziraphale’s ring finger and Crowley soothes it away with a thought. ‘Anyway, you apparently have a whole -- a whole _boyfriend_ you never told me about!’ The words almost hurt to say.

‘A _what!’_ Aziraphale claps his hand over his own mouth as his voice nearly rises to a shriek. He blinks furiously at Crowley over his own hand for a minute, then drops it, licks his lips carefully and says very slowly, ‘Would you. Please. Do me the kindness. Of explaining exactly what the _hell_ you are talking about.’

‘Your _lad.’_ Crowley puts enough meaning into the word for an entire season of reality TV. ‘Your _lovely young devil.’_

Aziraphale gapes at him, eyes wide and unblinking for a moment, then he closes the distance between them with two steps and takes Crowley’s face between his hands. ‘The only _devil_ I have about the place is just as old as I am and I would _never_ call him my boyfriend.’

Crowley’s heart seizes and breaks in the same moment and he opens his mouth to say he doesn’t know quite what, but Aziraphale beats him to it, leaning in so the tips of their noses brush.

‘If nothing else, my dear, a marriage is considered common law in England after seven years and we met that requirement sometime in the seventeenth century.’

‘That’s -- that’s an urban legend,’ Crowley says weakly, his own hands coming up to cover Aziraphale’s. ‘Common law marriage. ‘S’not a thing.’ 

‘Then we’ll just have to consider the other kind,’ Aziraphale whispers and kisses him before Crowley can say anything else.


End file.
